Nightmares of a Certain Reality
by SailFullOfGold
Summary: It's a cliche to say it, but everyone gets nightmares. These were something more than just a bad dream. You want more? Send out a review! Chapter 4 is up. Hotch/Prentiss
1. Chapter 1

Nightmares Of a Certain Reality

No claim on any characters or story!

It started off insignificantly enough; everyone got them and it was almost cliché to say out loud. He was dozing on the plane ride home (no one got any shut eye on the way to a case, as that time was consumed with case study and prep). Actually he was dozing only 10 minutes into the flight; generally that was only typical of the kid. Letting my mind follow this particular train of thought, I wondered why he hadn't been sleeping at night as this could be the only logical explanation for him to lay down the case file. There I derailed, why is it my business he isn't sleeping? It's not. So, content, but not satisfied (Not satisfied because I wish that he'd trust me enough with even some of his personal-non work related thoughts.) with this conclusion, I myself closed my eyes and drifted into a half sleep of airplane noises, overly comfortable seats and a distant dark man.

The second time I noticed, he was sleeping in the chair in the corner of the plane with his head leaning on the side of the mock wall. From my seat across from Derek I saw him twitch out of the edges of my periphery. He shifted his calm, sleep consumed expression into a look I hadn't expected: that particular combination of facial positions on him seemed unthinkable. Worried? Scared? Hardly, it's almost comical to think of him as anything but in control, collected! It was an oddity and I just counted it as a lucky glimpse of what those emotions would look like on him if they were possible in reality. At this point, I passed it off as just a dream; nothing to mention. This or a close variation of it became the norm. The rest of the team saw it, and accepted it without occurrence. And the same applied to myself, until one time it escalated into a different level of intensity.

After a case in the Pacific Northwest, time was given to all the members of the team; personal time to recollect the composure that was weakened by that particular case. As the case was closed on a Tuesday, the team was given to the Monday after next; a week and a half. At this news, Derek immediately began planning a camping trip in the Cascades to which JJ, Reid, Rossi and Garcia were all on board. Unfortunately I had things to do back home that couldn't be put off and Hotch slyly avoided being invited all together. So it was Hotch and me on the late night plane ride back to the east coast. Once on board, Hotch asked if I'd like the couch and, seeing the craving look he gave the couch as he said the word, I smiled and said that he looked like he knew better how to prove its worth. Unexpectedly, he looked up at me and I saw another combination of facial gestures that I didn't think him (or not much anyone) capable of and the only description I came up with is "reluctant longing." Really? On Hotch? I was intrigued a) with the oxymoron I created with that particular description and b) with seeing it on a man that rarely showed any emotion other than fortitude. And so I chose a seat that was closer to him than I would have chosen given the fact that I had the whole rest of the plane to choose from; the seat across the walk way adjacent to the couch. We both busied ourselves with getting settled in; I opened my laptop and plugged in the power and Hotch took off his jacket and removed his shoes. By the time the plane leveled off, Hotch was asleep on his side, lost to the insides of his eyelids as I was focused on the outsides of the vary same lids. At first they were unmoving for about 15 minutes, and I began to think that he was only just sleeping, nothing more; then they rapidly began to move. Minutes after that, the uncharacteristic look of worry and fright surfaced on his face. Concern began to flood my instinct to wake him away from whatever he was living in his betraying subconscious, yet guilty curiosity about this stoic man kept my waking words afloat. I then heard him produce a sound, a weak sound from the back of his throat; half way between a whimper and moan. This was worrisome but before I could decide whether or not to wake him I heard it again. And again. It felt wrong but I was spellbound by this weakened identity manifesting itself on Hotch's skin and in his voice. For about ten minutes these sounds came and went, some more loud than the others but each one disguising their true origin. Was it loss that brought them out? Fear? Pain? They were all so obviously sounds of stronger cries being held back, but the reason for them is what kept me from saving him from their cause. And there, in the middle of that thought, he quieted somewhat. He was now only breathing, breathing shallow, pointed breaths. I couldn't help myself; I had to see him closer so I knelt on the floor at the head of the couch; only about a foot and a half from his head. He rolled onto his back; it startled me. Thinking he was waking, I froze with the thought of explaining myself in my current position upon his waking. He didn't wake, but settled on his back with his left hand over his chest and the right hand above his head all the while breathing short ragged breaths. Then, all at once his fist clenched around his button-down shirt and his eyes winced as he cried out. This time there was no doubt that it was a cry of pain. The left hand that clenched was an action of an attempt of protection, that was for sure. His eyes tightened in a way one only does at a sudden sound or a forceful blow. But his cry, a cry so specific to the release of pain, so distressing it is rarely heard in a normal existence, is what left my thought process at a loss of what to feel. By this point his brow was beaded with sweat and his face was withered with pain. I couldn't help myself anymore; my eyes were clouded with tears I rapidly blinked them back and I gently reached out with both hands. I settled my left hand over his and my right over his damp brow. "Hotch," I breathed in a hushed, unsteady voice I didn't recognize as my own. I couldn't take seeing his pain any longer. I could feel my own sobs surfacing as a reflection of his emotion and I drew closer to him. He didn't stir and again cried out and flinched in the way he did before. I grasped his hand more tightly, shook his chest and steadied my breath, "Hotch!" I repeated. "Please wake up!"


	2. Chapter 2

Nightmares 2

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His eyes shot open in a flash of fear and he gasped a loud breath. For a second neither of us breathed; I stared wide-eyed with my own sort of fear at Hotch looking up at the ceiling. As I remained speechless and unblinking, Hotch slowly released the crushing grip on his shirt and began to recognize where he was, and soon after that, who was staring—almost open-mouthed with shock at him. Very quickly his face became one I recognized: one of alert attention. He swiftly sat up and all I could do is follow him with my eyes and stutter, "Are- are you okay?" I could hear the skepticism seep through my concern.

He leaned forward and rubbed his face vigorously as he stood up and put on his suit jacket. Unconvincingly he said, "I'm okay." His back was already to me as he walked to the mini-refrigerator and opened a bottle of water. "Just one of those things. I'm sure you know." He couldn't possibly think that this fragment of an explanation would settle the worry I knew he detected in my voice. How could he not know that I was picking up on every tell he was portraying: the display of this nightmare he knew he'd been caught having, the hasty way he removed himself from the vulnerable position without making eye contact, putting on his jacket as if it were going to shield him from some form of assault, casual denial. He knew that this was no longer just his "thing" as he called it. Something was not right with him and he knew now that I knew, and that last sentence he said gave me a perfect in.

"Really Hotch, I don't think I know what _that_ was. I can tell you what I _saw_, but I don't know anything about the cause of what you were just seeing." I said this in an unthreatening tone as I rose from my position on the floor. Feeling the defensive attack I could see coming even with his back still to me, I stood still and maintained my ground.

Continuing with his strategy of denial he said, "It's nothing Prentiss. We have a gruesome and twisted job sometimes and our restricted feelings about it are bound to recreate themselves in our most defenseless state." He said this all with the composure and tone of a professor providing an explanation to a classroom, which of course was unacceptable to me if not for the shear lack of any real explanation then for the patronizing deliverance.

Bordering on insubordination and with an obvious air of indignance I said, "You have to be kidding me, right?" He was now attempting to maneuver around me to retrieve his brief case and I took a second to wonder if he really thought he could side-step this conversation. His actions of denial and secrecy alone could be detected by a seventh grader _pretending_ to be a profiler! He stepped back and stood a few feet from me with a raised eyebrow and before he could voice a rebuttal, I continued: "After months of seeing you progressively fall into greater and greater bouts of restless sleep—which it is quite obvious that it is the only kind of sleep you've been getting lately, what with your thinning face, shorter temper and the perpetual dark circles under your eyes, how little you've been eating?" At this point I paused a minute to analyze what I'd just subtly revealed; I was talking about how I'd been watching him closer than what would be considered as normal, even normal concern. I added the others into my category of concern because I felt that I was revealing too much of my own secret. "Yeah, it's noticeable believe it or not and it's not just me that's picked up on it."

"Look," he said sternly, "Whatever conclusion you think you've come to is distorted. You've only seen one side of this situation, and I thank you for your worry, but really this doesn't concern you. I'm sorry if I've been short with the team lately; I'll try and be more aware of that. But other than that my performance is unaltered." He said those final words as though the conversation was closed, but I had to persist; 'One side of the situation?' What did that mean?

"Okay," I conceded, "this may not have concerned me and that's why I hadn't brought it up until now but you just made it my concern, Hotch." I new I had to tread softly if I was going to get anything more out of him. "You have to see this from my point of view." I pleaded, "You know it'll help to talk about it, and you know you have my strict confidence, and you know it'll only get worse, and it'll only be a mater of time before it _does_ start to affect your work because clearly it's already affected your health. So tell me your side of what I just saw, or should I continue to list reasons why you should release some of the tension going on in your mind?" Here I thought it best to show some submission—Hotch was not one to take demands or ultimatums—so I sat down on the chair, crossed my legs and waited. He stood there and stared at me for a few seconds and just when he was about to speak the plane began its landing process. _"Damn it!" _I cursed in my mind. I knew I'd gotten close to opening him up but our decent gave him the perfect excuse to batten down the hatches.

"Emily, I really appreciate it and if I feel I need to talk about it maybe I'll give you a call." He was being diplomatic: settle the conversation so that your opposer perceives victory, yet you were the one to control the outcome. Picking up his brief case he took a seat behind me and buckled in. Damn him for using some cheap interview tactic on me. And damn him for making it work by using my first name, which sounded foreign and attractive in his deep voice.

In the final minutes of the flight I began to think of my feelings toward Hotch; this stubborn, inflexible and damaged (whether he chose to acknowledge it or not) man. I knew that I was on the border of thinking about him too much, looking at him just a little too long—especially on those rare occasions at the end of the day when he'd loosen his tie and roll up his sleeves. I started to dissect my concern: was it concern about a friend? Coworker? A coworker I wished was more than my friend? I stopped; this was where I kept myself in a pseudo limbo of nurturing my unprofessional feelings and beating them back.

The plane landed and we made short work of getting ourselves back to the parking lot. His car, along with the cars of the rest of our team were all parked together. I opened my trunk to put away my bag and he was already backing out of his parking spot. Looking up I saw that he stopped the car and rolled down his window to talk to me. "Good night Prentiss. Get some rest. See you next week."

That was rich! "Get some rest?" I repeated as I watched his car pull into traffic. "I'd say the same to you but I know it'd have wasted my breath." I said bitterly and got into my car.


	3. Chapter 3

Nightmares 3

I knew it'd been happening, I just didn't think that it was as noticeable as Emily said. Lately, I just haven't been sleeping, and it's a combination of not wanting to fall asleep and waking up an hour later with that dream. Now she knows, she knows that I don't sleep anymore and she knows that the dreams are the reason why. How could I deny it, she laid out the evidence before me and none of it was contestable.

I was having the dream again on the plane out of Seattle, only this time it was more intense and real than ever before. I didn't expect it to escalate, but now looking back at the pattern of the last few months (mostly work, an hour or two of disturbed sleep, and more work) I was a fool for not seeing it coming, and a fool for letting it happen in front of Emily—who has already shouldered more than her share of the horrific burdens this job bestows. I'd found that sleeping on the plane was the best strategy to keep the nightmare at it's minimum and get some sleep at the same time because most of our plane rides are about an hour. But now, I don't think these little plane ride reveries will be possible now that they've intensified, and now that Emily has seen my unconscious demonstration.

When I opened my eyes, all I could register was panic. My body was frozen, but I could feel perspiration all over my body. I slowly began to regain reality and felt her warm hands on my clammy skin, saw the brown eyes I wish I could dream about. In those eyes I saw that I'd frightened her; if she only knew what I'd dreamt, she'd never sleep either. That was why I tried to deter her from perusing the topic. I should have known that my weak attempts at evasion could never breach her, but I had to try because the only other option would be to tell her of the dream but that is a terror I couldn't give her. So, I leveled my voice and upheld the position of supervisor against her friendly concern and efforts to help.

Later, at my house I sat on the counter with a tall glass of bourbon—it seemed to dull the dreams so that the details, faces, colors, and sounds were smeared—I considered what she'd said to me. Her phrase of "…seeing you fall into greater and greater bouts of restless sleep," came first to my mind. So she's been watching me sleep on the plane; enough to know that my sleeping pattern had changed…There was a surprising feeling in my chest at the intimacy of that confession. And that quick inclusion of the other members of the team after her list of my changes didn't miss me; I saw her eyes dart left—a clear sign of liars. (Looking left tells that the liar is accessing the right part of the brain, the creative side of the brain.) Then, "...thinning face…how little you've been eating." This revelation told me that she'd not only been watching me sleep, but she'd been watching in detail. Like I said, I can't deny it; I'd lost about ten pounds since the dream began to haunt me. Two cups of coffee with sugar for lunch would be noticeable to someone paying as much attention as she; I'd have to at least bring a lunch—even if I couldn't stomach it—as to at least _appear_ that I'm eating. I began to consider the way I responded to her on the plane; she was being a genuine friend—"And _colleague_." I reminded myself—and I shut her out, rejected her concern with a cold retort, calling her worry 'distorted.' _"Wow Aaron, you are some kind of horse's ass." _I chided myself. However, playing my own devil's advocate I reminded myself why such sternness was necessary—she would destroy me; all my personal and emotional defenses, road blocks and detours would be obliterated with one admission to her of the real pain the dreams created: with one admission, her empathetic eyes would draw out my dream, my torment, my emotion, and my feelings. With that regrettable conclusion, I remain behind my walls looking out at her willing comfort.

Finishing my drink, I turned off the kitchen light to kill the night in my dark, empty house.

Okay, I know this was a bit shorter, but I think that Hotch's thoughts are a bit more to the point. Please, please review…I never thought I'd come to begging, but really, I'd take even a "good" or "bad" or "I'd like to see more/less of such-and-such." Criticism! Throw it at me! Send out a "yes" "no" or "what about this…." Again, groveling isn't my style but it sure is a great motivator for more chapters!


	4. Chapter 4

Nightmares 4

I apologize it has been so long in between updates. I assure you it's been driving me crazy trying to figure out where to take the story next. I promise you the dream will be explained soon: I don't anticipate this story being too terribly long, so that means when the dream is told the ending will soon follow.

When we started up again the next week everyone looked refreshed, but I knew that after the initial briefing of the case JJ held in her hand, my teams' faces would be a bit more sallow. Half an hour ago JJ handed me the case file of a killer in Moab, Utah. Someone had been killing families in Arches National Park and leaving their bodies at the foot of rock formations. There were no visible signs of torture or excessive violence; each victim looked as though they'd been strangled. The families had been camping in a nearby camp grounds and were either reported missing or found at different rock formations within forty eight hours of their deaths.

I looked up from my desk and saw that JJ was gathering the team in the conference room. She gave me a wave as if to say, "Everything's ready," and before I joined my team in the conference room I finished the half cup of warm coffee on my desk. It was only seven thirty and I'd polished off two and a half glasses since I came in at six. Exhaustion was beginning to catch up with me. In the past couple of days I'd tried to have a few solid meals to regain the strength I'd felt slowly seep from my body, but I could only make it through about half a plate of spaghetti before I'd feel ill. Not much had changed since I'd been caught in my nightmare; each time I slept the dream came back just as vivid as it was on the plane. Several times over the past week I woke myself with a scream and each time I did I couldn't help but think of the comfort that was only a phone call away.

On Thursday night, after the forth nightmare of the week, I realized that I missed her. I missed her voice and the sad, soft way her eyes looked at me when we were on the plane. I wiped the sweat from my temple and remembered her warm hands on my cold skin. It was agonizing to take comfort in the phantom my memory created of her. I had brushed away her image and the sensation it created inside me. I told myself that thinking of someone that was off limits was no way to overcome the dream. However on Saturday night, the last time I really slept before coming in this morning, I woke up in a fit. The sheets were tangled around my feet and I'd actually torn my shirt a little in my sleep. I sat up in bed and tried to steady myself. My hands were shaking and I couldn't tell if it was from the fright of the dream or the fact that I felt freezing in the middle of a July night. Again I thought of her, but this time I didn't stop…I didn't _want_ to stop drawing from the tenderness of her imagined presence. After five minutes of false and imaginary affection, I stood and went to the only true warmth I had: a large glass of heated bourbon.

While JJ was going over the rough details of the story I remained standing in the back of the room. I observed the team as the case was unfolding. Dave was serious as ever, reading the documents and listening to JJ's dialogue at the same time. Morgan was focused on the pictures of the families, no doubt looking for similarities and possible connections. By the time I got to Reid, he'd already read through the case three times and was now shuffling through the photos. Emily was tapping her pen on the open file, engrossed in a witness statement. I couldn't help but feel proud of this melting pot before me. I felt like the wooden spoon stirring the mixture, keeping it at a steady boil. JJ finished her summary and I led the way out the door. "We leave in thirty minutes."

Unpacking our case work on the plane, Morgan sat his bag on the isle seat beside me. He began fussing and digging in his bag. Keeping his head down said quietly, "Hotch, man, are you okay?"

"I'm fine." I said casually turning a page in the case file, choosing to ignore the impression Morgan was trying to make.

He stopped his bustling and put a hand on my shoulder. Thankfully the noise level on the plane was fairly high due to Emily and Reid bantering back and forth about how she _firmly_ believed some fact he sputtered out was false. (Poor Reid was honestly attempting to convert her feigned contradiction. She turned her head and sinisterly grinned my way before tossing her file on a seat.) "Hotch…Hotch!" He said my name in a harsh whisper after I didn't respond the first time. I looked up at him with a furled brow. "You don't look fine. In fact, you look like hell."

"I'm a bit tired. I guess I sometimes get into phases of restlessness. Thanks for checking up Morgan, but I'm okay," I gave as my weak excuse. I was legitimately beyond refuting these accusations, and truthfully, I didn't have the energy to try.

Morgan settled into the seat his bag was previously occupying, "Alright, but you need to take care of yourself. Maybe no caffeine after three?"

"I'll have to give that a shot." I said this as I looked up across the small table at Dave. His eyes heard the whole interchange, and they didn't miss the dexterous way I skirted the real meaning of Morgan's question. "Okay everyone, I want to hear some theories ten minutes after we level off." I addressed the rest of the team, still locked into Dave's knowing gaze.

I couldn't see Emily (and lately I'd been in constant visual awareness of her), and this surprisingly unnerved me. She was likely sitting next to Reid, rolling her eyes in JJ's direction. I could hear Reid continue to string along evidence supporting the "denied" fact. I looked across Morgan's seat to see JJ sitting on the couch, giggling in the direction of Emily and Reid. I saw this more than heard; smaller noises have been lost to me, but I'd heard JJ and Emily giggle more than once so I could _perceive_ the sound of their laughter.

I began to dwell on the concept of laughter and its reassuring qualities. Laughter signified ease, trust of the ones you are with, also a certain feel and understanding for those around you. I thought about the last time I had laughed and who I was with and I came to a dismal conclusion: I couldn't remember when. Had it come to this? We all are constantly around one another, yet the others seemed to be the only ones who could find comfort in each other. I was crumbling at the edges and the others were naturally (and probably unconsciously) pulling away from my jagged frame, everyone but her. What kind of release could her smile and laughter offer me in my tousled nights? Was she really offering that much of herself? And could I asker for it?

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"This guy's certainly looking for recognition. I mean look at these rocks, nobody can miss them therefore nobody can overlook what he's done. He must clearly be compensating for his own miniscule life." Morgan began as we gathered around the tiny table.

"Look at the contusions around the victims' neck; those are definitely indicative of someone who is disguising more than just aggression. This is could be a substitute for revenge, vendetta, personal wrongdoing, asserting dominance he doesn't have in his normal life…" Reid added. "Strangling someone means you see them die…typical killers don't display this type of personal killings."

Emily added, "Look at the demographics of the families; they are from all over the western United States, however the only common factor they have is the oldest sibling. The younger children vary in age, yet the older children are around 14, give or take about six months."

A common denominator, just the thing we needed to get the ball rolling. "Are you suggesting this could be focused on the children—the oldest in relation to the younger or vice versa?" I asked. "Sibling rivalry could be the innate factor for displaying the families at the monuments. A sort of sick 'Look at me Mommy,' cry for attention."

Rossi jumped in, "I'd say we're looking for a young, white male in his early to mid twenties. This man still feels the bitterness of his jealousy and has finally reached a breaking point."

JJ took her cue, "I'll set up a meeting with the local authorities to disclose our preliminary profile. I also think we should have a media release of the profile: this could give him some of the recognition he's looking for and thus give us time to get the message out to the families in the national park area."

The ball was rolling and the plane was not yet on the ground; I expected nothing less from my team. Everyone settled back into their own case study and it was quiet for the first time since we all first boarded the plane. I tried to maintain concentration on the file in my hands, but slowly they fell into my lap. I stared out the window letting my thoughts drift to less trying topics like the kindness of her phantom's smile directed my way; the touch of her tender hand reaching out in reassurance rather than his enraged fists I frequently saw in my dreams.

So, I'm not claiming this to be a case story (the case portion of this story may be weak because I've never envisioned a case story so any suggestions about it are welcome) but I felt I had to throw some kind case in there so as to keep it real and not so consumed in Hotch and Emily—as it is their 'thought process' and all. Also, I'm open to suggestions when it comes to Hotch and Emily. What of it did you like? Want to see more of/less of? I appreciate it!


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